Jesus .
Why can’t I be more like Jesse and seize the day?
Before I knew it, the light turned green and the Ferrari blasted off the line, racing down the road with us cruising a mediocre forty-five mph behind. My heart was pounding out of my chest. Jesse didn’t race. The taillights of the red Italian sports car were already out of sight.
I relaxed my death grip from around his waist and slumped forward against his back. “You scared the shit out of me. Why didn’t you go?” I shouted so he could hear through the helmet.
Jesse shifted into high gear and sank back in his seat to cruise for several miles, one hand on the throttle and his left hand resting casually on his thigh. He turned his head to the left and shouted over the wind, “I’m not an idiot. There’s no way a Harley can take a Ferrari. I was just messing with that guy.”
I smiled. I chastised myself for distrusting Jesse. He might be impulsive and reckless when it came to bar fights, but I was glad to learn he wasn’t that way with me.
The PCH was a beautiful stretch of winding highway that led up the Coast of California. It was a perfect scenic route to enjoy, on a warm day, with the jagged ocean cliffs and cresting waves completely in open view from the backseat of a motorcycle. Breathtakingly beautiful. Jesse reached back with his left hand and stroked my thigh, wedged up against his side. His large hand easily palmed the top of my knee and he stroked up and down my jean covered leg, his thumb nearly reaching all the way up between my legs on the up stroke. Bitch seat my ass…this was more like a massage with a happy ending.
No sooner had we pulled out of a sharp bend in the road when we caught sight of a sports car, pulled over on the side of the road. It was none other than Justin Bieber and his red Ferrari, alongside a California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop. The CHP officer had probably been waiting just around the bend, with his radar gun pointed at oncoming traffic. That was their usual M.O. I had seen it numerous times before on California streets and highways. Jesse waved at the driver as we passed, traveling at a smooth sixty miles an hour.
Jesse turned his head again to shout back to me, “Baby, you’re my guardian angel. I would’ve given that guy a run for his money if you hadn’t have been here.”
I pulled my arms tighter around Jesse’s waist, enjoying every moment. The craggy, creaking sound of the steel doors to my heart could practically be heard above the wind blasting past us, as they opened a little more. I had never felt this free and happy before.
~*~*~*~
We stopped at a cute little Italian restaurant called Mi Piazzi on the PCH, just outside Malibu. As we entered we were greeted by an elderly host, who looked as if he had just got off the boat from Italy.
“Buongiorno. I have just the perfect table for you two.” His accent was thick and absolutely authentic. I took Jesse’s hand as we were led through the restaurant to our table, on the patio with an ocean view. The sound of squawking seagulls filtered through the air as I watched them dive and peck at people’s lunches, down on the beach, below. The crash of the waves, the sand, being on a motorcycle adventure with Jesse - what could be more romantic?
Jesse stared at me intently. The expression on his handsome face was pure satisfaction after his motorcycle ride. He told me it was his first real experience back on a bike after his injury, other than taking the bike for a test drive after he fixed it. My belly twinged as I stared back at him, and the hope in his eyes swirled into future possibilities of many more days with me on the back of a bike. Phrases like, ‘motorcycle mamma’ and ‘his old biker lady’ sprang, with horror, into my mind. Eeww! That wasn’t my self-image; but it tickled me nonetheless, as a humorous juxtaposition against my stylish fashion design persona.
Scolding myself for being so quick to judge, I entertained the idea
Why can’t I be more like Jesse and seize the day?
Before I knew it, the light turned green and the Ferrari blasted off the line, racing down the road with us cruising a mediocre forty-five mph behind. My heart was pounding out of my chest. Jesse didn’t race. The taillights of the red Italian sports car were already out of sight.
I relaxed my death grip from around his waist and slumped forward against his back. “You scared the shit out of me. Why didn’t you go?” I shouted so he could hear through the helmet.
Jesse shifted into high gear and sank back in his seat to cruise for several miles, one hand on the throttle and his left hand resting casually on his thigh. He turned his head to the left and shouted over the wind, “I’m not an idiot. There’s no way a Harley can take a Ferrari. I was just messing with that guy.”
I smiled. I chastised myself for distrusting Jesse. He might be impulsive and reckless when it came to bar fights, but I was glad to learn he wasn’t that way with me.
The PCH was a beautiful stretch of winding highway that led up the Coast of California. It was a perfect scenic route to enjoy, on a warm day, with the jagged ocean cliffs and cresting waves completely in open view from the backseat of a motorcycle. Breathtakingly beautiful. Jesse reached back with his left hand and stroked my thigh, wedged up against his side. His large hand easily palmed the top of my knee and he stroked up and down my jean covered leg, his thumb nearly reaching all the way up between my legs on the up stroke. Bitch seat my ass…this was more like a massage with a happy ending.
No sooner had we pulled out of a sharp bend in the road when we caught sight of a sports car, pulled over on the side of the road. It was none other than Justin Bieber and his red Ferrari, alongside a California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop. The CHP officer had probably been waiting just around the bend, with his radar gun pointed at oncoming traffic. That was their usual M.O. I had seen it numerous times before on California streets and highways. Jesse waved at the driver as we passed, traveling at a smooth sixty miles an hour.
Jesse turned his head again to shout back to me, “Baby, you’re my guardian angel. I would’ve given that guy a run for his money if you hadn’t have been here.”
I pulled my arms tighter around Jesse’s waist, enjoying every moment. The craggy, creaking sound of the steel doors to my heart could practically be heard above the wind blasting past us, as they opened a little more. I had never felt this free and happy before.
~*~*~*~
We stopped at a cute little Italian restaurant called Mi Piazzi on the PCH, just outside Malibu. As we entered we were greeted by an elderly host, who looked as if he had just got off the boat from Italy.
“Buongiorno. I have just the perfect table for you two.” His accent was thick and absolutely authentic. I took Jesse’s hand as we were led through the restaurant to our table, on the patio with an ocean view. The sound of squawking seagulls filtered through the air as I watched them dive and peck at people’s lunches, down on the beach, below. The crash of the waves, the sand, being on a motorcycle adventure with Jesse - what could be more romantic?
Jesse stared at me intently. The expression on his handsome face was pure satisfaction after his motorcycle ride. He told me it was his first real experience back on a bike after his injury, other than taking the bike for a test drive after he fixed it. My belly twinged as I stared back at him, and the hope in his eyes swirled into future possibilities of many more days with me on the back of a bike. Phrases like, ‘motorcycle mamma’ and ‘his old biker lady’ sprang, with horror, into my mind. Eeww! That wasn’t my self-image; but it tickled me nonetheless, as a humorous juxtaposition against my stylish fashion design persona.
Scolding myself for being so quick to judge, I entertained the idea
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